Regarding Blood Mages
by Wbrooks
Summary: Oneshot. In the calm before the storm, Zevran has a question for his Warden.


The campfire burned brilliantly enough to slash through the shroud-like darkness of the Brecilian Forest. Even so, it was not brilliant enough to hold the attention of the young woman seated before it. Instead, Amell's eyes were fixed on an admirably sized pile of daggers, of every make and composed of every kind of material she knew, and some that she had not even known existed.

She picked up one of the slender blades and held the greenish metal up to the light of the fire. It was of Tevinter make and very sharp, part of the spoils they had claimed from their crawl through the ancient elven ruins. Her fingers curled tightly around the blade and she turned it over, holding the blade down, the tip of it just brushing her right palm.

"That is a very wicked blade, my dear Grey Warden." As always, Zevran's voice was smooth as honey, and yet it still managed to cut deeper than any of the daggers could have.

Amell started, her hand shuddered and sent a tremor down the blade to her flesh, slicing it open. She felt a splash of warmth on her skin. "Damnation!" She cursed, and dropped the dagger to the ground, letting its blade fall with a thump. She held her hand away from her body, cursed again, sighed, cursed once more, and then looked up and into eyes that held more than a hint of mischief.

"I hope they did not teach you such language in the Circle." He said, tut-tutting as he unbuckled his belt. Amell could hear the clinking of metal on metal, glass on metal, and glass on glass, though she could not see their source. Not all of them, at least.

"I learned them from Morrigan." She said with a soft smile. Her eyes flicked down to the bright red slash of color bubbling up from her palm. "Have you got a bandage?" She asked stiffly, and he nodded, but did not offer one.

His eyebrows rose. "Can you not heal it yourself?" The honeyed tone suggested that he expected something of her.

Amell hesitated. "Well- no." She said finally with a huff of breath, "The kindling Oghren brought was unsuitable. He still can't tell the difference between a dead tree and a living one." She bit down slightly on her lower lip. "It was all green sticks, and took quite a bit of cajoling to set alight- all my energy into the damn fire. And, anyway- I'm rubbish at healing, as you well know-" She continued on, excuses tumbling from her lips just as fast as she could come up with them. She could not tell him the truth; ever since she had made a deal with a demon called Desire, her body had become less and less inclined to be healed by sensible, traditional, non-profane means.

When he finally, mercifully, interrupted her, she was glad. "I have been curious, as of late-" He began, and set the belt down on the ground, then perched himself on the balls of his feet beside her.

"Always dangerous." Amell murmured.

"You and I- or charming Leliana, of course - are always in the high position, raining death on our foes." He bared his teeth in a grin, "And yet, that is not the first splatter of blood I have seen on your robes."

"Every enemy that we have faced with a fleck of intelligence in their heads has had the sense to flank us, Zevran." Amell replied, her tone dry. She closed her fingers over her bloody palm. "And I am not defenseless." She added, gesturing to the pile of daggers with her uninjured hand, "Nor without means to defend myself, though I am not a master of knife play. Plenty of cause for blood."

"A fair point, my dear. But there is more than blood that these eyes have seen and these ears have heard." The elf reached down to the ground, plucking and chipping away at the deadwood that littered the ground around the campfire. Once he had amassed a sizable pile of wood chips, he tossed them into the fire, spitting out an array of sparks that cracked and sputtered into the darkness.

Amell began searching in her pack for a spare bit of cloth to bind her hand. She knew Zevran had a few poultices on him, but he seemed preoccupied with speaking, so she did not ask.

"Yes," He hummed to himself, the softest she had ever heard him speak. "Strange chants fall from your pretty mouth. A shadow darkens your lovely face." He clucked his tongue, and craned his head to meet her gaze with his own searching one. "It has been so since you traveled into the Fade to aid young Connor."

The Warden's lips pursed as if a bowl of sour milk had been pushed under her nose. "There are elves who have magic, but you are not one of them, Zevran." She said quickly, her voice unintentionally sharp. "You are speaking of things you do not understand, you know this?" She hoped he could not hear the note of defensiveness that curdled her tone, though she doubted it would be so.

"I have seen enough of magic." Zevran pressed on, "-to know when I am witnessing magic that is not often practiced in respectable circles."

Amell's eyes shut and she brought her unharmed hand to her temple. Of course. "Are you accusing me of practicing blood magic?" She asked, very nearly choking on the words.

Zevran was quick to shake his head. "No, no, my dear warden. Not accusing, no. But suggesting? Yes." They were both silent for a time, one waiting paitently for his answer, the other biting the tip of her tongue until she had split her skin again and was tasting copper.

"Does Wynne know?" Amell croaked. "Does Alistair know? I imagine not-" Her eyes opened and rolled upwards into the star-studded sky. "He has not yet cut me down. Unless he lays in wait beyond the trees-" Hysteria threatened to creep into her words. She rose to her feet, throwing her hands to her sides and splattering the ground with drops of blood.

"My dear warden-" Zevran rose to his feet, as well. "I was merely inquiring. It has been some time since you and our future king have been in battle together, you have sent him on many an excursion with that foul dog and the - what was that charming name the walking stone called her? Ah, yes - swamp witch. And, alas, the lovely Wynne." He gazed into the dark, distracted, if only for a moment, and then blinked twice and smiled at the mage. "My point is, they do not know, and they will not return from the ruins until light. So come, tell me. It is blood magic, is it not?"

Defeated, Amell returned to the ground, gathering her robes so that she could sit cross-legged before the fire. "It is." She said, feeling much more calm than she imagined she would have been after admitting that she had become a maleficar.

"Can you show me?" He asked, eyebrows rising, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards, almost in mirth.

Amell looked at the elf as if he had grown a second and then third head. "You want me to show you?" She asked.

"It is better than asking for you to tell me how you acquired such knowledge, no?" He said, his smile easing. He was intelligent enough not to pity her. And he had learned a long time ago never to ask a question for which he didn't want the answer. "Come now, I am curious."

"Curious about the dark and forbidden arts of blood magic, which have driven better mages than I to despair, madness, and murder?" Amell shook her head. "Mad elf." She muttered to herself. "Very well."

She shifted in her place, pushed away the pile of daggers, and held out her bloodied hand in front of her chest. She unclenched her fingers, opening her palm up towards the inky black sky. Her eyelids fluttered as she raised her uninjured hand to meet the first. She stretched open her fingers and waved them over the splotch of blood - she felt a sting as her skin split open and blood began ebbing up again from her wound.

Amell said nothing, staring intently at her palm. She felt Zevran's eyes on her, but she couldn't afford to break her focus. Every time she cast these spells, she could hear the voice of Connor's demon echoing across the Fade, ringing in her blood. She let out a grunt and the blood surged up in to a bubbling column, twisting and spiraling above her skin.

"I am used to blood flying while I am in your presence," Zevran was using a tone that Amell had become accustomed to only hearing when he questioned Leilana about the cloistered life. "But not floating."

She chuckled despite the moment and finally allowed herself the luxury of looking up to meet those painfully understanding eyes.

"Does it hurt?" He asked, as if unable to contain himself.

"Like a small flame licks at my palm." She murmured, "Using my skin and spirit as tinder." A smile blossomed on her lips "I suppose this is how a lyrium rock feels when it is mined." She twisted her free fingers idly over the blood sprite and it twisted along with them. In time, it began to take a less haphazard form until there was a small, red dragon hovering above her palm.

Zevran shifted forward in his place to squint at the creature. "Marvelous." He said under his breath.

"Not profane?" Her voice was uncharacteristically self-pitying.

"Not even remotely." He replied.

She closed her hand into a fist and the blood fell to the ground, splashing the dirt and wood chips. "The Circle taught otherwise." She murmured, and pulled a poultice and a length of cloth from her pack.

"Allow me." He reached both hands for hers and let it settle gently in one of his palms. He reached for the flask in her unharmed hand and pulled away the cork. He applied a bit of the bright red poultice to her wound and then bound her hand with the cloth, tying it off and snipping off the ends with his own blade. He wiped the excess poultice away on the ground.

"A pretty bow for an ugly wound." Amell said. Zevran did not release her hand. The light of the fire flickered over their entwined fingers; her pale skin, and his, tanned by the sun of the northern seas. He reached up, and used his fingertips to push her hair behind her ear, exposing a sliver of gold and twinkling gems to the light.

"Ah-hah!" He exclaimed, nostrils flaring. "You are wearing it. I did not think- so soon-" The expression on his face was quite delighted.

Amell's face flushed. "I had Leilana put it in when we last made camp. Stung something nasty." She pressed her lips together in a thin line. "Did you mean for me to stow it away in some box to be lost? I think not- so wipe that smile from your fool mouth or I shall-"

She did not get the chance to craft the curse that would befall Zevran, the fool mouth pressed against her lips too firmly for her to protest, and she could feel the warmth of the sun of the northern seas sinking into her skin. Her fingers clenched around his hand, pressing it into her wound and yet she did not mind the pain. It reminded her that Zevran was not some trick of the Fade.

She sighed and leaned forward, resting her forehead in the crook of his neck. "Anything to defeat the Blight." She said softly.

"Hush." He replied. "We won't be breaking camp until tomorrow, so why don't we take advantage of our very fortunate solitude?" He rose to his feet and gently pulled her up with him.

And she was happy.


End file.
